The first time I heard the word "gay" and learned its meaning, I was in church, and man, the preacher was letting them have it. I was a little kid, though, and Dad wasn't about to explain it. So all I thought was, "It's a good thing I don't have two daddies. Two daddies make bad kids and they all go to hell." Then, my own daddy flew away to be with God. I was rushed out of the hospital room when he grew his wings. (That's how Mom explained it.) I was so sad I didn't get to see. I was somehow at peace with the whole thing. I didn't know I'd feel his absence for a lifetime. I had no idea that I'd grow into one very odd teenager who had so many questions for his dad, or anyone who'd care, really.
My mom says I smiled all the time. That's the first thing she'll say when she looks at me now, which is a little unsettling. But I'm not surprised. Back then, everyone petted my fluffy brown bowl cut. They told me I'd make some lady very happy one day. Told me to be good, and I promised I would. I don't remember ever feeling different in Kindergarten. No one ever told me I couldn't share their snack or have my turn on the swings. No one threw the snack at me or pushed me out of a swing. And if anyone even threatened, I could run to the nearest adult. My teacher would run to the principal, who'd run to my mom. She'd hug me and cry and say no one would hurt me anymore; she'd make sure of it. She said it doesn't matter what anyone says; she'll love me the same.
Now, in high school, I can't tell her that she's wrong. But throughout the course of this story, I'm always close to saying, "What if I don't love the people I'm supposed to? What if the other students and our church family all hate me for that? Even some of my friends. What if Dad would hate me if God let him look down from heaven? What if God hates me? What if...I'm gay, Mom. Do you still love me now?"